


Proud Men

by ElocinMuse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, FBI Agent Dean Winchester, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Megstiel - Freeform, Serial Killer Castiel, Serial Killer Meg, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7721011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElocinMuse/pseuds/ElocinMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the heart of every man, there are two beasts. One that can be tamed, and one that roars to be set free. The burden of true character is determined by which beast is fed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proud Men

_I want to hunt like David_  
_I want to kill me a giant man_  
_I want to slay my demons_  
_But I’ve got lots of them_  
_I’ve got lots of them_

There is something dark inside of him. Always has been; waiting, lying dormant. In the heart of every man, there are two beasts. One that can be tamed, and one that roars to be set free. The burden of true character is determined by which beast is fed. Becoming an agent with the Bureau was a way of sating both. Winston Churchill said once: “We sleep safely at night because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us.” Dean Winchester is a rough man.

He has been suspended twice in his career. Investigated countless times. Methods questioned for their unorthodox nature and put under a microscope for his dangerous habit of toeing the line between professional and loose cannon. He does not know peace, but he knows his results disguise broken protocol and lighten the gray cloud hanging over his badge. He is a good man.

He is a savior. A pariah.

He is a martyr, about to die.

He remembers pain. A ribbon of long brown hair and eyes so dark they might as well be black. Dean remembers satisfaction and relief; he can still taste the _greed_ at finally knowing his white whale was within reach. The cold steel of his weapon in hand, and then suddenly an arm closing over his throat from behind. He remembers darkness.

Six years ago, Kansas fell under attack from its first female serial killer. They called her The Bloody Paramour. On each of her victims, she left behind flower petals on their eyelids. Daffodils.

Every kill, marked by a yellow-eyed stare.

Dean learns her name during year three of the investigation. Or at least the name she goes by currently. Meg Masters. Sometimes, he thinks he knows her better than himself.

It certainly won’t matter now.

The room around him is nondescript. He smells of sweat and blood, and there is a single exposed light hanging from the leaking ceiling. Dean rolls his shoulders once, feeling the tight ache as the motion is constricted. His hands are bound behind his back, lashed to the chair he’s trapped in. Screams linger heavy on the air, echoing through the stone halls and nestling against his spine in a kiss of ice.

Into the halo of light steps a man.  

“Hello, Dean.”

The deep voice cuts through the silence, because there are no screams in this room. Only the unyielding quiet of a lost cause.

Castiel Novak stands in front of him, clad in black. Blade in hand. There's blood on its razor edge. Another monster Dean knows more about than any person has a right to.

For many years, Masters was known to have worked alone. A one woman nightmare, until rumors started circulating that she’d taken up with another. An apprentice, a partner—no one was really sure until recently.

Dean’s voice is thick when he speaks, and it feels like there’s gravel in his throat. “Father.”

The formal greeting is bitter on his tongue, and blue eyes lower to the ground across from him.

“I was never ordained.”

“You don’t say.”

“Just ‘Cas’ is fine.”

“Well, it’s always nice when you’re on a first name basis with the guy about to murder you.”

Novak had been a seminary student two years prior, originally considered a missing person by authorities when he disappeared. It wasn’t long before the gruesome truth came out, when St. John mort petals began adorning victim’s eyes alongside the daffodils.

“I’d actually prefer if this conversation didn’t end in blood, agent.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“You’re not dead yet. That should lend a certain credibility to this… predicament.”

Dean flashes his best condescending smile. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon get it over with. Otherwise, I’ve got places to be. Don’t you two have some poor bastard to fillet?”

Castiel regards him coolly. Fingers tighten imperceptibly over the handle of the knife. “That poor bastard could be you, Dean. I suggest you put a lid on the devil-may-care façade, and listen to what I have to say.”

A muscle flexes in Dean’s jaw. Green eyes harden in defiance. “I’ve got my ears on. Not like I have much choice.”

Castiel loses some of that ice, shoulders slumping somewhat. He considers Dean heavily and ponders how they’ve ended up here. Two predators, claws vaguely retracted, sitting across from each other. There is tension, but there is an air of civility too. Castiel marvels at it. “You’ve been hunting us for two years. Her, longer.”

“Feels like forever.”

“It does, trust me.”

Castiel looks tired, and that only angers him more. Dean can’t help the despair in his voice. The cruel injustice is too much. “You were a good man,” he says. The sad veneration in the words makes Castiel look away. “I read your profile. I learned everything about you that I could. Spotless record, charity work. Years of service without reward. You broke your leg saving a little girl from getting hit by a car. You went to the homeless shelter that afternoon on crutches to work the food line.”

In the back of his mind, as the frustration and hurt spills out, he wonders if maybe he can use that old injury to his advantage. It’s a weakness. Broken bones never heal right. If he’s able to make an escape, it’s good information to have.

Castiel sinks into the second chair, exhaling heavily. He’s brought them to equal ground. “I was a good man.”

Dean grits out through his teeth, “Until you took up with your little playmate.”

Castiel’s eyes slide to his, expression softening. “People change for the ones they love, Dean.” He shakes his head, speaking more candidly than he means to. “There’s a darkness in that. I wasn’t a killer. I wasn’t her partner. I was her next victim.”

Dean blinks, feeling the air leave his lungs. That hadn’t been in any report. “What?”

“I’ve felt her knife. I’ve had those daffodils on my eyes.” There is reverence in his voice, whisper soft. “When she pulled them away, it was like seeing the world for the first time. She couldn’t kill me. She tried," he admits. "In the end, she wouldn’t. I became her confessor. She confided in me, and we became a sanctuary to each other. We fell in love.” Dean laughs; a hysterical sound that holds no humor whatsoever. Castiel concedes the reaction with grim acknowledgment. He shakes his head, looking down at his hands and subsequently at the knife he holds with such familiarity now. “She never wanted this for me,” he says quietly. “Never wanted me to be like her. She tried to push me away. I wouldn’t let her.”

“You realize how fucking _twisted_ that is?”  

Castiel meets his eyes, arrow sharp. “Indubitably.”

Dean feels the watering in his eyes before he can stop it; his vision is blurry and he barrels through it in quiet desperation. “You say people change for the ones they love.” It’s too much because it’s too easy. He’s seen it over and over again in his line of work--too many times to count. It’s too easy for a good man to fall from grace. It hits him right where he lives, because he knows the look in this man’s eyes. He’s seen it in the mirror. Haunting him; reminding him how many times he’s crossed the line himself. How easy it would be for him to stay on that side and never look back. Dean shakes his head, unable to keep the emotion from his voice. “Why couldn’t she change for you?”

 _Why did you let this happen,_ he wants to demand. _Why didn’t you fight harder?_

If there was no hope for Castiel Novak, what hope is there for him?

But like the dropping of a pin, everything shifts with two simple words.

“She did, Dean.”

At the FBI agent’s blank, confounded look, Castiel waits before speaking again. Lets it sink in.

“Haven't you noticed the divergence?”

Dean doesn’t understand. He stays mute, waiting for the other man to explain.

“Alright. For brevity’s sake, let’s just examine our last five victims." The names are listed off with the fingers of his hand. "Jordan Wyatt: charged with three counts of rape last year, never convicted. One of the women went missing a month after the trial, never found until two weeks later. Dead in a river. Courtney Farrow: cheated on her husband with the manny. Curiously enough, her rich husband ended up committing suicide with a bullet to the back of the head. Good thing her father was the police chief, otherwise people might have suspected something ill of her. George Farrow: corrupt police chief. Sal Henderson: sex trafficking. Child pornography. Wanted on four counts of murder." Blue eyes darken, and there's a heavy pause. "Howard Castle. You’d be surprised what we found in his basement, Dean. I’ve never seen anything so ugly. People never would've suspected him, of course. A widely acclaimed doctor in a small, adoring community? Would you have looked at him twice?" Castiel's eyes drill right through him. "People see what they want to see. You know that better than most. I’d say with the name the papers were giving him, though, it really was quite obvious. Your friend, Agent Singer… he’s been hunting this one for a long time, hasn’t he? There were at least a dozen bodies on Castle’s property that we found. All of them butchered beyond recognition.”

Realization finds him slowly, colder than anything he’s ever felt. The more Castiel tells, the more he begins to comprehend. 

“The Ripper,” Dean breathes out. A worse killer than Meg Masters ever was or could ever be. All his victims brutalized in profane, ungodly ways. A profile and modus operandi almost identical to Jack the Ripper himself. The information resists every attempt at processing and rationalization. It’s game-changing. “You’re killing killers.”

“It’s not murder,” Castiel says, with conviction. “It’s _justice_.”

Dean says nothing. His head bows to reel in silence.

“Meg doesn’t take innocent lives anymore. Never again.” Castiel gets back to his feet, pacing over to him. “People confess a lot to men of the cloth, Dean. More than you would ever believe. And you can’t imagine the breed of monsters Meg has crossed paths with. Killers are like anyone else; they like to brag.”

Dean’s voice is hoarse as he speaks. “So why am I here, then?”

“This isn’t an execution, Agent Winchester. At least… I hope it won’t be. I haven’t actually killed before, not yet, but I will kill to protect her.”

Even in the midst of threatening someone’s life, Castiel can’t smother that inherent gentleness in his eyes. The goodness that comes as naturally to him as breathing. There are distant screams backdropping his words and the knife is still bloody in his hand, but not once has he ever stopped being righteous. Dean tries to ignore the perverse honor in what the man has confessed, tries to ignore the instinct of relief and approval he feels in knowing those people are dead dead _dead_.   

“What do you want from me?” he asks, already knowing and dreading the answer.

“To end it,” Castiel says, deadly soft. “Meg and I are done being hunted. The Bloody Paramour case is over. Do what you need to keep up appearances with the investigation, go on with business as usual. But you will make no real progress on finding us. Am I clear? Let us do our work.”

Dean lets out a trembling breath, angry and lost and confused because he shouldn’t be considering this for a second. “I can’t,” he says tightly. The words all but lodge in his throat. “I took an oath.” 

He feels the knife suddenly against his heart. Castiel’s eyes bore into his, severe as a storm. “That oath _cripples_ you, Dean.” Dean swallows hard, trying to find the words to deny it. Castiel loses some of his composure, and the agent can’t help but feel an awful kinship with him. “Tell me you’ve never longed to step outside the law. Tell me you _haven’t_. To _punish_ , when protecting isn’t enough. Tell me, Dean.”

The fierce, penetrative quality of his presence is now stifling. His voice—icy and guttural, like a glacier grinding over rocks—cuts through him better than any blade.

Dean’s emotional silence is confession enough.

“Your soul can still be saved, Dean.”

“By turning a blind eye and letting you kill?”

He has no right to this conflict he feels. How is he any better than them?

“By removing the temptation so you don’t kill them yourself.”  

The words shoot straight through him, right down to the marrow. Dean nearly crumbles beneath the terrifying truth. It rouses whatever dying resolve remains inside of him.

Two guardian devils.

His chest tightens.

They’ll keep people safe in ways he can’t. They’ll bring judgment down on those outside his reach, those the law can’t touch. Free of consequence. Free of any oath, other than a promise to destroy the wicked.

Dean listens. He listens to the deafening quiet of the room, the pounding tempo of his heartbeat, the rushing in his ears. He listens as Meg finishes snuffing out the life of her next victim in the room above them. He hears his phone buzzing incessantly on the table nearby as his brother calls him for the hundredth time. Sammy checking in on him. Probably getting worried. He hasn’t given up; he’ll probably miss court if he doesn’t stop soon.

“One word, Dean. One word makes those ropes disappear, and that door open. One word, and you’re free. You’ll never see us again.”

It isn’t about saving his own life. It isn’t even about his altruistic desire to be worthy; to alleviate the invisible burden that’s hung so heavy on his shoulders for too long. The conflict that consumes him now is selfish, dark, and bleeding absolution. He can’t save everyone, but… what if someone else can?

Dean Winchester is a proud man.

His voice is thick. Green eyes tearing over. “What do you want me to say?”

An errant darkness takes hostage the room. There is benediction and aching sorrow in the words of the other man’s reply.

“Say yes.”

This is the day he feels salvation. This is the day he knows damnation.

_I try to keep my conscience clean_  
_I try to keep myself out of your bad dreams_  
_I try to wash my hands for you every night_  
_lest you find my strangling fingers_  
_wrapped around tight_


End file.
